I was sitting at a stoplight, praying about my word for 2016. It was October. I remember leaning against my window and the chill on the glass surprising me.

I have words for every year. Normally, by this time, I know my word. I kept wondering why I hadn’t gotten a word yet. I wondered if I missed it somewhere. I wondered if I would even have one. It wasn’t like I was resisting a word, but for the past five years, my words have been anything but kind. While I was curious why I hadn’t received one, I wasn’t actively pursuing it.

I was hesitant. But that day, something had me thinking about it.

So I’m sitting there, praying about my word, and I whisper under my breath —

I think it might be rooted.

There was something about that word that called to me, something about grounding and breathing and remembering who I am in this flesh and bone. I thought it might be a hint. I looked out the window, contemplating, and the answer hit me square in the chest. It was the most audible I’ve ever experienced the Spirit’s voice.

“Your word will be mother.”

My breath hitched. My heart flinched.

And then I started to weep.

I didn’t share anything about my word. In fact, I wrote about the reasons why I wouldn’t be telling anyone other than my closest friends and family. This was not meant for public consumption. This was going to be an internal shift — an intimate pull toward what caused me the most pain. I knew the truth: my words are never about the obvious. Not really. So even though there were implications beyond what I fully grasped in that moment, I focused where I could: the mother heart of God.